No 18 in D Minor
by Proverbial Pumpkin
Summary: The making of a moment in Tohma's musical career. Established K/Tohma.


At the head of a long conference room, a smartly-suited lackey knew he was losing Tohma's attention. He was full of unhelpful praise of Nittle Grasper's success, ten wasted minutes of information they all knew. K glanced across the polished mahogany table towards the president. Tohma's chair was swiveled to face the presenter, an elbow on the table and the side of his head resting in his palm. His expression was one of abject boredom and mild disbelief. In a room full of dark grey and black-clad men, Tohma wore a deep red blazer, unbuttoned over a black dress shirt. He always had been easy to look at, and K's focus wasn't helped by their two-week virtual draught, Tohma coming home close to midnight six days a week and heading straight back to the office without eating every morning.

The pitch finished, the lackey made to return to his seat and Tohma didn't notice, as though he were already proceeding with his workday in his mind. K thought about kicking him under the table. Instead, as he moved to the front of the room with a folder in hand, he said loudly, "alright, so that leaves the risk-benefit analysis."

Tohma immediately looked up, gracing the room with his attention. K rolled his eyes. They were there to discuss _him_ , the fucker. He tossed the file open on the table in front of him and lay one palm flat as he read aloud. "We're looking at about two-thirds' interest compared to a Grasper concert. Two out of every three Grasper ticket-buyers would be interested in this type of performance." There was an appreciative murmur around the table; it was a good number, not far behind what they'd forecasted for Ryuichi a few years ago. But K's eyes flickered to his left; Tohma was the only one here they needed to convince.

K flipped a page, and had to raise it a few inches to read the text. A small "tch" from Tohma. K could expect a renewed debate soon over whether he needed his eyes checked. Which he didn't. Glasses were for people who were getting older. "The question is, could we keep the price up for this kind of performance?"

"Obviously not," Tohma spoke at last, generally irritated. "If they're Grasper fans, they are _not here_ for classical music. We'll have to practically give tickets away."

The room seemed glad just to have engaged him, but K had come to win this meeting. Nevermind Tohma's piercing, unimpressed eyes, nevermind the glimpse of skin that disappeared under the "V" of his black collar. "Not true. First of all, you know as well as I do that some people will pay to see you just because you're you."

"Of course they will, Shacho!"

"Seguchi-san, you're one of Japan's most popular, beloved-"

"Please stop," Tohma said testily, giving them a look. "Go ahead, K-san."

They hated K. If they didn't before, they sure as hell did these days. K cleared his throat. "Secondly, we don't have to rely on Grasper fans." The suits blinked at him, Tohma included. "We sell at full price, as high as you want, and advertise the usual channels. But we'll reduce the risk, and open up doors down the road, if we also advertise to a more sophisticated crowd."

There was much tutting and leg-crossing; had K just called the president old? K shrugged and closed his folder. "Go on the classical station. Leave marketing materials at the major museums. Sell the first five rows at exorbitant prices. Build an audience of college kids _and_ people making six digits. If we're going to put Seguchi Tohma alone on a stage playing Shubert on a concert grand, why treat it like Nittle Grasper unplugged? If we're going to do it – and I'm telling you that we should – let's do it right."

* * *

It was a long two months at Tohma's greater Tokyo property, a modern five-acre estate with no development permitted within a three-quarter's mile radius. There had been so much to plan, so much uncharacteristic hand-wringing from Tohma about the wisdom of their decision. The early Saturday morning tickets went on sale, K leaned in the kitchen doorway, watching the president of NG Studios, fully dressed in black shoes and cotton-silk long sleeves, move efficiently between dishes on the stovetop, and the oven, and the counter. They'd not had a good night, Tohma working late and coming home tense, and in K's unimpressed opinion, he didn't look much better now, after five hours of sleep. Tohma closed the oven door and tossed an oven towel on the counter, then turned and started when he saw K watching him. "Oh."

"Tohma, what the hell are you doing."

Tohma turned back to rifle through a cabinet a foot above his head. "I was quietly minding my own business, but I guess that part of the morning is over." He cursed as something fell out of the cabinet and clattered to the floor. He was agitated. K picked up the container and set it back in place.

"If you aren't working for once, I can think of better rooms to spend the day in."

Tohma let out a small huff. "You don't want me right now, believe me." He found what he was looking for, crushed cardamom, and shook a disastrous amount into a steaming pot of something.

K kept to himself the vivid details of just how wrong Tohma was, and instead sighed and removed the shaker from his possession. "It's 8:30am. Why are you cooking – " he looked from the counter to the pot – "pears and rice and – " he opened the oven door. "What is that?"

"A blackberry wine cake."

Okay, that was impressive. Nevertheless, K knew obsessive behavior when he saw it. "Would you try to relax?" he said, then added quietly, "the tickets will sell."

Tohma stilled for a moment, finally, and leaned back against the counter. He looked down at the simmering pot. The scents of cardamom and sweetened wine filled the kitchen. "I know they might," he said. "I know how hard you've worked to put this together. It's just…" He shrugged. "If they don't sell, then this becomes a vanity project. An embarrassment. And you know how many people want my job." He leaned over to turn the stovetop off, and covered the tray of pears to put them in the refrigerator. "Maybe I should have finalized the program," he said, mostly to himself.

"There's plenty of time for that. Don't worry." That got K a small unconvinced nod. "What time do they go on sale?"

"An hour ago, maybe two. I'm trying not to think abou-" Tohma was interrupted by the phone buzzing behind him on the wall. "Excuse me, K-san," he said as he pulled it out of the receiver. "Seguchi Tohma."

K waited. It was sad, Tohma answering his home phone as though he were at work. "Yes?" Tohma idly opened the oven door and moved the handset to his other shoulder. "Yes…" Then he straightened. "I'm sorry, what? Are you sure?" Almost alarmed, he looked at K. "Well that would take considerable work. I understand. I'll call you back."

He hung up and silently returned to the oven, slid two pot holders out of a drawer, and extracted a Bundt pan from the oven. He set it on the stovetop and observed the deep red cake crust, steaming. "The concert has sold out."

As though it were nothing. K should have known. "Well fuck me," he said, his face splitting into a slow grin.

Tohma lifted an eyebrow at him as he turned the pan upside-down over a plate. "That was the venue calling."

"They called you here? What's the problem?"

"They want to add two performances, a three-night engagement," he said, retrieving a sauce pan from a floor cabinet. "I have to call them back as soon as possible so they can put a holder message on the website, if I agree. They don't want to lose the sales from anyone who tries to buy a ticket today." Tohma poured a generous few glugs of blackberry wine into the sauce pan and watched it heat a moment. Next was confectioner's sugar. No milk, no vanilla. Alcohol syrup.

"Now what are you doing?"

"I'm thinking, obviously. And making a glaze."

"Tohma, that's straight wine! That's not a glaze, it's sugary booze."

"Would you stop worrying me?" Tohma said defensively, stirring. "I don't even have a program ready. How can I possibly commit to three performances?"

K rolled his eyes. "By calling them back and saying 'yes, I would like to make three times as much money, thank you.'"

Tohma shook his head, watching the saucepan. "Those tickets are expensive. They'd be expensive for _me_ , nevermind regular people. If I add dates, it dilutes the value of the performance. I'll have overcharged people who thought they were seeing a one-off show." He lifted the spoon, watched the glaze drip thickly down, and set the pan off the heat. The smell of alcohol was strong. "Unless… I need to think. There might be a way."

"Whatever it is, I like it."

Tohma was silent a moment. "We raise the value of the show some other way. Hold this," he said, handing K the spoon before picking up the phone again. He pressed the revert button and waited for an answer.

"You're calling the venue back?"

"Yes. No, not quite. I need to investigate some profit-sharing first."

K put the spoon to his mouth – absolute straight wine. In his delicate way, Tohma was stressed. But that had never stopped him before. Or even come close.

"Hello, Memorial Hall? Seguchi Tohma. Yes, we just spoke. Could you transfer me to the offices of the Tokyo Symphony?"

* * *

 _Two months later_

They'd driven separate cars the night of the first performance; Tohma's applauded entrance on the venue stage was the first time K had seen him since the night before. K's seat was in one of only a few rows touched by the bright of the stage; the rest of the gaping auditorium had plunged into darkness.

Tohma's right foot hovered against the pedal, while the weight of his left leg rested on the ball of his shoe, his leg bent under the seat as if he might rise. He sat at a grand piano to the left front of the conductor's stand. Behind him over two dozen trained musicians sat poised and disciplined. He wore a black night suit over a white collared shirt, a rim of white sleeve peeking out over his wrists. Every eye on the stage was locked on the woman at the podium, at an ivory baton that made three barely perceptible movements, and then came the sound.

It was the opening of three nights, just like the venue wanted. The stakes had been raised to a full piano concerto, like Tohma had wanted. There were solos to come after intermission, but this was the moment Tohma had practiced his fingers numb for. Brass, double reeds, and more violins than strictly necessary played twelve bars of a walking introduction, and then the baton swiveled to the left. Tohma's opening notes heralded a melody in a high octave.

K had seen soloists, very occasionally, play to their own heads in performances like these, renowned classical musicians who had every right to look straight down for forty minutes and make the conductor follow them. Not Tohma. He was good, but he'd never done this before. He wouldn't risk even the slightest misstep in the performance. Eight bars into his first phrasing, then, when the strings joined and the timing mattered most, he looked up, squinting in focus, to the conductor. K had never seen him seek any sort of visual cue in his playing; certainly the thumping bass track was enough in Nittle Grasper. Tohma was so auditory, so independent, it was almost unnerving to see his eyes so intent on another person while he played.

The conductor wore a jacket with shallow tails, and thick heels that put her at the height of a man. When she turned right, to the trumpets, or left, to Tohma, the audience caught a glimpse of a daring amount of eye liner on an otherwise un-made up face. Her hair was pulled back, her movements sure, almost combative. With two hands she commanded six sections of the symphony simultaneously. Her jacket hid her figure but for her hips, her stance wide. They had found the Tohma of Tokyo's fine arts. It dawned on K that Tohma was relying heavily upon her skill, had put himself in her hands for the next three nights. That alone, Tohma couldn't have done in his earlier days.

A beat of silence, a moment's breath mid-movement, and then over low strings she re-introduced the piano, Tohma playing at half-speed. K had heard Tohma practice it, but had no idea how emotive this moment would become. The conductor held an exquisite power from her podium; she pulled the music from Tohma. The current of violas swelled generously as his melody line escalated above them, Tohma's hands moving faster and pitching up, then further, the first small bead of sweat forming in front of his ears as she drew more effort, more speed, more intricacy from him over the symphony.

For half a second Tohma rose inches up from his seat, and then caught himself. He was in a concert hall, not an arena. Meanwhile in the audience sat girls, couples, retirees, students, suits. Tohma was playing a fine line. When in his career had he perfected such extended runs; where did this hybrid form come from, half-way between entertainer and virtuoso? Tohma played upon his fingerpads, with none of the meticulous curved fingers of someone with truly good posture… but with every bit the surety, the expressive distinction.

The symphony was dismissed two pieces after intermission, the conductor bowing, acknowledging Tohma, and her players, and the audience, and then she walked cougarlike across the stage and disappeared behind the stage doors. The musicians followed, Tohma included, and a quiet swarm of employees emerged in the dimmed light to remove the chairs and stands and podium. When Tohma returned, it was to applause and an empty stage, save the piano and the reflection across it from the lights that gradually phased up, a streak of white through the obsidian.

K scanned the mezzanine, and then the orchestra seating. He'd done the research on the city's classical reviewers; they were out there. The legitimate classical outlets might not have shown up to write about a pop-rock star trying his hand at something new, but they'd sure as hell turn out for the city symphony with a celebrity guest soloist. Tohma loved new press almost as much as he loved new talent. K settled into his seat, forgetting the sold-out audience and the plainclothes reviewers for a moment. Tohma was easier on stage now, with no music in front of him, no commanding woman looming tall overhead, no life-long trained professionals in a semi-circle behind him. It was all in his own control again; alone at the instrument, he re-positioned himself on the piano seat in a slight movement and stretched his fingers flat over the keys.

K smiled to himself. This, he'd seen before. A Shubert piece was followed by Cheng, then by Mozart. At exactly 10pm the concert ended on a soft note, Tohma's eyes flickering almost imperceptivity to the audience as though, after ten years in Nittle Grapser, he wasn't convinced a quiet finale was allowed.

K felt a visceral response he hadn't had to music in years, as the final note held long in the air.

And then came the thunderous response.

* * *

As the audience filed out, K shuffled along with them and did some strategic eavesdropping.

" – wasn't expecting that."

"Makes you wonder if Nittle Grasper's coming to an end again."

"Does he have an album?"

When K invited himself behind the stage, Tohma was receiving written performance notes from the conductor herself. She handed him a small index card like a prescription and slung a long purse strap over her shoulder, as though on her way out. "And you've got to play louder in the second movement. You've just got to. I couldn't hear until tonight how much the audience would absorb your sound."

Tohma lifted a finger – one moment – to K, before answering her. "You mean I have to ignore what's on the page to accommodate the venue?" Tohma said, scanning over the notes in his hand. "You told me this auditorium was acoustically perfect."

She seemed pleased to be challenged, even as she waved his comment off. "I said almost perfect. You're mighty high handed for someone used to playing in sports arenas. I don't care what the notation is. I'd rather sacrifice some of your precious finesse, if it means we can actually hear the melody." She glanced over, not altogether happy to see K. "I think someone's waiting for you."

"I can't read this, at the bottom," Tohma said.

She stepped closer to see. "Where? Oh, that. That says you were magnificent tonight." Tohma blinked up from the card to her, surprised. She hadn't stepped back from his space. "No need to look so shocked. I was concerned you might not perform well to a conductor, but I underestimated you." Her gaze flickered down over him, harmlessly yet hard to miss, and then back up to eye contact. "You gave me exactly what I needed."

Tohma cleared his throat. "Yes, well. I'm glad I could exceed your low expectations."

K invited himself into their space and folded his arms as she pulled her car keys out of her purse. "I suggest you have as early a night as possible," she said. "Don't go out and have too much fun."

Tohma glowered a moment, forgetting decorum and nevermind her degree from the Paris Conservatoire. "Excuse me, but I _am_ an adult."

She glanced momentarily towards K, then back to Tohma. "Fine then, don't go out and have too much adult fun."

She turned on her heel, leaving Tohma slightly aghast. "That strikes me as terribly inappropriate."

"Forget it," K said, scanning the hallway before leaning down to kiss the spot below Tohma's ear, salty from two hours under concert lights. "Nice work. You were something tonight. This was something new, something…" _Special_. "…Important. They're going to want to bring you back next season."

"It's possible."

K spoke covertly. "And I couldn't take my eyes off you."

"That was rather the point of the spotlight, I imagine," Tohma said absently, leading K to the venue's back doorways as though he hadn't just cemented a new avenue in his already-illustrious musical career. "Ready to go? We still have two performances to go, but I think I've earned a small celebration."

"Where to?" K asked, holding the door open for Tohma to pass through into the night air. "You could get us into one of your swanky jazz clubs, or there's a low-capacity lounge on the top floor of the symphony hall. I'm sure there'll be some NG types around who'd fall over themselves if you showed up, after tonight."

"I can't be seen out drinking in public before the other performances this weekend are finished. Anyway, what do I care about those people right now?"

"I don't understand."

Tohma moved inconspicuously closer as they walked, so K could hear when he lowered his voice. "You're the one who pitched the idea of tonight. _You_ put up with five months of disruption to NG, not to mention at home."

"So?"

"So to be honest, I had in mind a more intimate affair."

A more intimate… Oh thank god. The first three floors of lights dimmed in the symphony hall behind them as K unlocked the car, trying not to look too eager, too absolutely relieved, trying not to think just yet of Tohma's steady, skilled pianists' fingers.

"Well, you're the boss."

 **The end.**

* * *

 **A/N:** They'll have to pry this pairing out of my cold, dead hands.


End file.
